


The Last Man At The End Of The World

by watanuki_sama



Category: Psych
Genre: And they bond, Gen, Implications of alcoholism, It's not actually 3:30 the entire time, Lassie can't sleep, Neither can Shawn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 3:30AM and yet again, Carlton has no idea what Spencer is talking about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Man At The End Of The World

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 03/03/2013 on ff.net under the penname 'EFAW'.

At three thirty in the morning, it feels like the end of the world.

There’s no one out on the streets. It’s long after last call, and the nightclub crowd have, by this time, gone home, their own or a strangers’. There are places he can go, he knows, where there are still people around. Down by the docks and warehouse district, perhaps, there are illicit deals going down, at this darkest hour when no one is around. He could, he supposes, go down and find something, some law being broken where he can swoop in and arrest all the perpetrators.

Tonight, though, Carlton doesn’t really want to work.

There’s no one out. The silence and absence of people don’t bother him. It’s not so lonely being alone when there’s no one else around.

Driving on the streets, it’s like going through a ghost town. Most houses are dark; storefronts are black and locked up.

The only people out at this time of night are insomniacs like him or the dregs of humanity.

Sometimes, at this time of night, there’s no telling the difference between the two.

Insomnia is nothing new to Carlton Lassiter. He’s never spelt well, as long as he can remember. When he was a child, his mother took him to a child psychologist once, to try and figure out why he wouldn’t sleep. Carlton hated it. He hated talking about himself, hated being forced to open up to a complete stranger who only cared because she was paid to. By the time Carlton got into school, he used those sleepless nights to study. His grades were enough to get his mother off his back, and the trips to the psychologist stopped.

It got easier when he learned to drive. When the insomnia hit him, he could creep out of the house and just go. Sometimes he would find an open stretch of road and go flying, windows open, letting the wind wash over his face and hair. Sometimes he would merely wander the streets, finding places to sit and think, places where cops wouldn’t come up and question why he was out so late. Occasionally, he’d find a truck stop or an all-night diner and sit there, surrounded by people too tired and too jaded to wonder why a seventeen-year-old boy was at a place like this at a time like this.

Victoria never understood. He said he had chronic insomnia, and she pretended to be okay with it, but she never _really_ understood. He’d see her face, when she came down in the middle of the night to find him watch COPS on mute, or going over another case file.

She was supportive, at first. She made him warm milk, chamomile tea, whatever she’d read online that would help insomnia. She bought him books, even got him the first season of COPS so he could occupy himself. She tried to give him something to do when sleep failed him. But as the years passed, she stopped trying to be supportive. She just got…tired.

Carlton would look at her face and see the questions, and he wouldn’t be able to answer them.

_Why can’t he be with me?_

_Just one night? Is it too much to ask for one full night with my husband?_

_I always wake up alone._

_It’s cold. Why won’t he be there?_

They never once had an argument about it. They argued about everything else ---children, the house, his work. But never about the insomnia. Maybe if they’d argued about it, it wouldn’t have been such a big issue.

He doesn’t know.

Towards the later years of their marriage, he started going to the office. He wasn’t _exactly_ trying to avoid his wife, not really. There _were_ cases he could work on, cold cases and open cases and there was _always_ more paperwork to be done. Sometimes clues could be found in the quiet and dead of night when nothing could be seen during the daylight.

He pretended it had nothing to do with Victoria’s questions. He pretended like he wasn’t avoiding her.

So maybe, in the end, it was his fault things fell apart.

He tells himself, even now, that it was good for him, in the end. Those extra hours at work helped him complete more cases, which helped him rise to the top. All those many extra hours helped him become the youngest Head Detective in the history of Santa Barbara.

He tells himself that it was worth it. Even if his marriage fell apart, he’s Head Detective. That has to mean something. Right?

Now ---now that he’s alone--- when the insomnia grips him, he has a lot of different fallbacks. Sometimes he still goes driving, and sometimes he finds a bluff and sits and stares at the scenery below him. He spends a lot of time at work, which just solidifies his reputation as a workaholic. (It’s true, so he doesn’t bother to tell them he simply can’t sleep.)

Sometimes, when his body has been pushed past the point of exhaustion but his mind won’t let him rest, he reaches into his nightstand and takes two of the pills Dr. Hadley prescribed him. Carlton doesn’t like the pills so much. He hates being _completely_ out of it and he can’t defend himself if someone broke in. Mostly he just hates feeling vulnerable. But sometimes…well, sometimes it’s necessary.

Most of the time, though, when he gets to that point, he’ll drink himself into a stupor. It may be a bit more expensive, but if he drinks to the point where he passes out, then he still gets a somewhat decent sleep.

Okay. It’s not decent at all and he wakes up hungover as hell, but it’s still better than the pills.

Sometimes he’ll just stay home and watch COPS (and drink) but there’s only so many times he can watch his favorite re-runs before he has to find something else to do.

Tonight, he’s just driving. There wasn’t a hard case today, so he doesn’t need to drink the horrors of his job away, and he hasn’t been up so long that he’s ready to fall over. There’s an itch, though, an urge to get out and do something, which rules out COPS or any other show tonight.

So he’s just been driving, back and forth through the town, looking for…something. He doesn’t know what.

Carlton Lassiter is an old hand about handling his insomnia, but there’s something about tonight that feels a little different from all the rest. For a moment, it’s the end of the world, and Carlton is the last man alive.

It’s not an unfamiliar game he plays. It’s just that tonight, the game seems kind of lonely. It’s never felt that way before.

The lights of a small, 24-hour diner seem to jump out at him from the darkness. He doesn’t immediately recognize where he is; he figures that’s not so important right this second. Letting out a slow breath, he cruises up to the diner. It’s a place he’s never seen before, which is unusual; he’s had enough nightly jaunts that he thought he knew all the all-night places. Curious, he slowly pulls into the parking lot.

The lights are warm and inviting, the driving hasn’t done much to soothe his mind today, and tonight just feels lonely, so he turns off his car and climbs out.

There’s always a shock, stepping into a brightly-lit diner after going through a town full of shadows and silence. Brightness flares in his eyes, and he pauses in the doorway, blinking to clear his gaze. The soft strains of Jim Croce meet his ears, an unusual choice at a place like this.

There are a few people inside. The waitress looks just as tired as the few patrons.

Then he sees Spencer sitting in the corner nursing a mug and he debates turning around right there.

Instead, he walks down the narrow aisle of the diner and slides into the seat across from Spencer. The consultant gives him a tired stare but doesn’t say anything, just nods quietly in response to Carlton’s soft greeting.

Insomnia is nothing new to Carlton. Looking at Spencer, he thinks that maybe the consultant isn’t a stranger to this time of night either.

They don’t say anything, and it isn’t awkward or strange at all. If this were anywhere else, if they were in front of people they knew and worked with, Carlton knows that Spencer would be loud and boisterous and his generally annoying self.

Of course, if they were anywhere else, in front of people they knew and worked with, Carlton wouldn’t have sat down in the first place.

The tired waitress comes over, and he orders coffee.

Before she can walk away, Spencer adds, “Decaf.” He looks away from the window and gives Carlton a sleepy smile. “Neither of us needs caffeine right now, Lassie.”

Silently, Carlton agrees. He’ll get enough caffeine in the morning. He nods to the waitress and she walks away to get his order.

Spencer takes a sip of his own drink. Carlton catches a whiff of chocolate. Hot chocolate. Carlton smiles to himself. That seems like Spencer.

The waitress returns, handing him a mug, and he thanks her. When she walks away, he starts adding his sugars and creams. Even decaf, he prefers his coffee almost sickeningly sweet.

“Why are you out this time of night, Lassie?”

Carlton tears open a sugar packet, dumping it in. Spencer doesn’t even look away from the window. There’s nothing out there, just a parking lot and a dark street. But Carlton understands. There doesn’t have to be something out there to stare at it. Not at this time of night.

“Can’t sleep,” the detective confesses, pouring in cream. It’s more than he’s confessed to anyone in a long time. Usually he’s alone; when he’s not, no one else cares. He adds the last cream and doesn’t look up as he asks, “You?”

Spencer is quiet for a long time. It doesn’t bother Carlton, not right now. He can’t even be surprised by Spencer’s silence. Were this the daytime, Carlton would have _had_ to make a comment, because in the light of day Spencer is _never_ still or quiet or calm. But right now, if he was his normal self, Spencer would be the odd one out.

They sip their drinks in unison, not saying anything, and the radio turns to “Time In A Bottle.” Jim Croce again. Huh.

“I like this time of night,” Spencer says quietly, cradling his mug between his hands. Carlton encourages the talk by not saying anything at all.

“It’s quiet,” the consultant goes on. “Silent. There’s no one around. It’s…nice. Not being _me_ for a while. I don’t get to do that a lot.”

Spencer sighs, brings his hot chocolate to his lips, but he doesn’t sip. He continues to stare out the window, eyes far away. “I can’t turn my mind off, but now, I don’t have to _think_ about anything. It’s nice. Peaceful, you know?” He sighs and finally takes a sip of his drink.

Carlton follows Spencer’s gaze to the darkened parking lot. “Yeah. I do know.” And he does. There’s something about this time of night that doesn’t inspire deep thoughts. It’s enough to just let go of everything, to float in a numb haze and focus on nothing at all.

Carlton looks down at his mug, runs his thumb against the plain what porcelain. “Sometimes…” he begins. The words stick in his throat, and he has to swallow before he can get them out. “Sometimes, I pretend like it’s the end of the world, and I’m the last man alive.”

He doesn’t know why he’s confessing that. He’s never told _anyone_ that, not his childhood shrink, not even Victoria. The last person he should be telling is _Spencer_ , who takes every possible chance to mock him and berate him. Why give up something like this when it would just be more fodder for Spencer to use in the daylight hours?

Too late. The words are out, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He waits for the mocking.

It doesn’t come. After a moment, Spencer sort of chuffs into his drink and murmurs, “That’s so…like you, Lassie. I can totally see it.”

He looks up, surprised. Spencer is definitely laughing at him. Carlton has long since learned the difference between laughing _with_ and laughing _at_ , and this is the latter. Except…Spencer’s laughter is missing the mockery, the malice he’s used to. This is…gentle. Almost understanding.

Carlton doesn’t really understand what’s happening.

He doesn’t point it out, in case that makes it change.

Spencer looks away from the window, his gaze roaming the small diner and the silent patrons. “I like this time of night. It’s…mysterious. You have to go out and find the lost people, and then then you get to meet the most _interesting_ stories.”

It’s 3:30AM and yet again, Carlton has no idea what Spencer is talking about. His brow furrows. “Don’t you mean, ‘meet interesting _people’_?”

The consultant chuckles and shakes his head, taking a sip of his drink. “No, no, Lassie, that’s all wrong. It’s so easy to meet interesting people, any time of the day. It’s so much harder to find interesting stories.”

By now, Carlton is complete baffled, and he tries not to let it show. “I don’t understand at all.” On a normal day, it would be almost physically _painful_ to admit that to the consultant. Right now, though, right now he feels like it’s okay. There’s something happening between them that could never happen in daylight hours, something that he can’t describe. Almost like a truce, perhaps.

He knows, somehow, that whatever he shares right now will never make it to daylight. Whatever happens right now will stay between the two of them.

Because they’re the last two men at the end of the world, and times like these, some things are just sacred.

After a second, Spencer smiles into his mug and looks out the window. “This time of night, people stop pretending, Lassie. They drop their masks and let their true selves shine through. That’s when you meet the most interesting stories, because they’re the stories you can’t find during the day.”

Carlton thinks about the types of people who sit at diners at three thirty in the morning. He thinks about himself, who is most definitely that type of person. Then he tries to imagine himself as an ‘interesting story,’ especially now, when he’s tired and stressed and can’t get to sleep.

“I just don’t see it.”

Spencer’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “That’s because you’re an end-of-the-world type.” He huffs another quiet laugh over the rim of his mug. “It’s fine, Lassie. For you, it’s alright.”

Carlton feels like he ought to be insulted, but again, there’s a distinct lack of malice or mockery that he’s just not used to. So he doesn’t say anything and sips his coffee.

They both stare out the window as the waitress comes over and offers refills. Carlton declines. Spencer’s drink is half full. She wanders off, and Carlton rolls the mug between his palms.

“What do you mean, ‘lost people’?” he finally asks. It’s been lingering in his mind since Spencer said those words.

Spencer doesn’t look away from the parking lot. “Everyone who’s out at this time of night is lost in one way or another, Lassie. Surely you of all people can realize that.”

He wonders what that says about Spencer.

He doesn’t ask. He has a feeling that this is one of those rare times when Spencer is being completely honest, and the man still isn’t making any sense. He’s afraid that is he says anything, if he asks how Spencer is lost, then the consultant will cover up with fake cheer and loud useless words. It’s enough, for right now, to just sit here, both of them, just like this.

There’ll be enough time in the morning for Spencer to be his usual self. Neither of them has to pretend right now.

They don’t say anything after that. That’s fine. Nothing more really needs to be said.

By the time Carlton finishes his coffee, Spencer’s mug is still a quarter full. When the detective stands, Spencer just turns and watches him with quiet eyes.

Carlton throws a few bills on the table, adds a few more for a tip, and shoves his hands in his pockets. He feels like he should say something. This feels important, somehow, because this isn’t normal for them. This won’t change anything in the morning ---Carlton will make sure of that--- but right now…

Right now, he just doesn’t want to leave it like this.

Spencer takes pity on him, giving him a soft, tired smile that Carlton has honestly never seen on the consultant’s face. “Good night, Carlton.”

That’s it. It’s…right. It’s strange and a little weird, to hear his first name come out of the fake psychic’s lips without some nickname or insult attached to it, but it works here. Because it’s three thirty in the morning, and they might as well be the last two men in the world. The familiarity is fitting.

He smiles back, a similar soft, tired smile. “Good night, Shawn.”

He steps out of the diner into the end of the world. He pauses momentarily on the stoop; then he shuffles to his car, scuffing his feet on the ground just to break the silence. Right before he climbs into his car, he glances at the diner to see Spencer watching him, staring at him in the dark. After a moment, Spencer raises his hand in farewell.

If this were any other time, at any other place, Carlton would never even think of waving back.

But they’re the last two men at the end of the world, so he raises his hand and gently waves goodbye. It’s strange; even though he knows he’ll see the other man tomorrow morning, bouncing around the police station with a goofy look on his face, right now…right now it feels like this is the end. Like he’ll never see Spencer again.

Why not? It’s three thirty in the morning and the world might as well have ended. He may _not_ see _this_ Spencer again.

Spencer’s still watching him as he pulls his car out of the parking lot. Carlton imagines that Spencer keeps watching him, longer after his headlights fade from sight. Carlton knows he keeps glancing back in the rearview until long after the diner’s lights have disappeared in the darkness.

Insomnia is nothing new to Carlton Lassiter. But for once, the nighttime feels a little lonely.

The last man sighs and drives through the end of the world.


End file.
